They didn’t even bother to set them straight

Just slapped them everywhere that meant something to them

Their sticky fingers on short hands

Demanding to leave their print, everywhere they could reach

This medium, like a new love currency feverishly spent

Tumbling out in excited expressiveness that leaves it’s mark

I marvel at the carefreeness I didn’t have

In my time, it had to be perfect since…you only got one chance to get it ‘right’

Also «Do you know much stickers cost?» «Will you ever get such nice stickers again?»

So each dispensation had to be thought through…To the point of paralysis

Frozen because ‘imperfect’ was a waste

Hands full, but heart empty save for anxiety

Today, stickers on the face, bed, mirror, car, tongue…

Layered, off-kilter, torn, folded in the corner

Scraped off and crumpled as they try again with another

They aren’t even all gold. They just pressed on any color.

But even the disarray becomes a pattern

Once you let go of these arbitrary adult rules

And every glimpse after the masterpiece is done inspires a shake of the head but with a smile

As the items’ new character and attitude come to life

Lovingly and frantically breathed into being with cheap but precious glue

They don’t form the perfect pattern but they’re there. Undeniable

Reminding us of a good time. An experience. A happy moment.

Reminding us that life is about the living. Not the perfect.

By Nwaami

“Your life is already artful – waiting just for you to make it art.” Toni Morrison